"I'm not sure where we went wrong," says Ellen McCormack, nervously fondling the recycled paper cup holding her organic Kona soy latte. "It seems like only yesterday Rain was a carefree little boy at the Montessori school, playing non-competitive musical chairs with the other children and his care facilitators."

"But now..." she pauses, staring out the window of her postmodern Palo Alto home. The words are hesitant, measured, bearing a tale of family heartbreak almost too painful for her to recount. "But now, Rain insists that I call him Bobby Ray."

Even as her voice is choked with emotion, she summons an inner courage -- a mother's courage -- and leads me down the hall to "Bobby Ray's" bedroom, for a firsthand glimpse at the psychic devastation that claimed her son.

She opens the door to a reveal a riot of George Jones CDs, reflective 'mudflap mama' stickers, empty foil packs of Red Man, and U.S. Marine recruiting posters. In the middle of the room: a makeshift table made from a utility cable spool, bearing a the remains of a gutted catfish.

"This used to be all Ikea," she says, rocking on heels between heaved sobs. "It's too late for us. Maybe it's not to late for me to warn others."

Pandora's Moon Pie Box

While poignant, Ellen McCormack's painful battle to save her son is far from isolated. Across coastal America, increasing numbers of families are discovering that their children have been lured into "Cracker" culture -- a new, freewheeling underground youth movement that celebrates the hedonistic thrills of frog-gigging and outlaw modified sprint cars. No one knows their exact number, but sociologists say that the movement is exploding among young people in America's most fashionable zip codes.

"We first detected it a few years ago, with the emergence of the trucker hat phenomenon," says Gerard Levin, professor of abnormal sociology at the University of California. "At first we thought it was some sort of benign, ironic strain. By the time we realized the early wearers really were interested in seed corn hybrids and Peterbilts, it had already escaped containment."

Levin points to 'Patient Zero,' who in 1997 was a 23-year old graduate student in Gender Studies at San Francisco State University.

"During a cross-country trip to New York, he stopped at the Iowa 80 Truck Stop in Walcott, Iowa, and bought a John Deere gimme cap as a gag souvenir," says Levin. "Within a year, he had dropped out of graduate school, abandoned his SoMa apartment, and and was working at a drive-thru liquor store. Today he is a wealthy televangelist in Bossier City, Louisiana."

The contagion of 'Patient Zero' would prove devastating. Soon trucker hats were appearing throughout trendy coastal neighborhoods like Williamsburg and Park Slope and Portrero Hill, often accessorized with chain wallets and 'wife beater' t-shirts. A new alternative youth movement had emerged, rejecting the staid norms of establishment NPR society and embracing the 'tune-in, turn-on, chug-up' ethos of the Pabst Blue Ribbon underground. Before long, it would broadcast its siren call to an even younger generation -- one whose parents were woefully unequipped to recognize it.

Youthquake

"It was one day last spring," says Ellen McCormack. "My life partner Carol and I were in the garage, working on a giant Donald Rumsfeld papier mache head for the Bay Area March Against the War, when Rain walked by. I thought he looked kind of strange, so I stopped him and looked closely into his eyes. Then I realized the truth -- he was wearing a mullet. I was shocked, but he swore to me that it was only ironic."

"After a few months, it was clear Rain had lied to us -- that hideous Kentucky waterfall was completely earnest," she adds, choking back sobs.

Her 18-year old son would soon exhibit other signs of disturbing changes.

"I was driving past a McDonalds one day last summer, and I thought I saw Rain's bike outside. He had told me earlier that he was going to a friend's house to stuff envelopes for the Dennis Kucinich campaign. I pulled a U-turn and headed back," she recalls. "When I confronted him in the parking lot, he started giving me a lame story about how he was only there to protest globalization, but I could smell the french fries on his breath."

McCormack says that Rain's erratic behavior would also come to include excessive politeness and deference.

"Everytime I tried to talk to him it was 'yes Momma,' and 'no Momma,' when he knows damn well my name is Ellen," she says, anger rising in her voice. "It was like I didn't even know him anymore."

McCormack tried an intervention with friends from the Anti-war community, but to no avail. In October, Bobby Ray packed up his Monte Carlo and left for basic training at Camp Pendleton.

"I have no son," she says in a barely audible whisper.

Across the country In toney Westchester County, New York, Jim and Sandy Vandenberg describe a similar tale of family grief.

"We are people of faith who keep the sabbath," says Sandy, a curator in the Dada collection of the Museum of Modern Art. "Even when she was a toddler, we made sure Emily got up early every Sunday morning to read the New York Times Book Review. Sunday morning was our time, until..."

"Until those damned Jesus bastards stole my little girl," interrupts her husband, barely containing his anger. Once a Freshman honors student in Lacanian Deconstruction Theory at NYU, their daughter is now better known as Lurleen McDaniel -- reigning Princess of the Tulsa Livestock Show and Rodeo.

In Bainbridge Island, Washington, single mom Jane Michelson says she began suspecting that her son Brian was in trouble after he started hanging with a new crowd at school.

"These weren't normal kids, neighborhood kids in Che t-shirts who want to drop a couple of hits of X and chill on Radiohead," she says. "They would talk in a sort of strange code language, like 'Roll Tide!' and 'Gig 'em Ags!' and 'Piiiig Sooieeee!'"

Signs of trouble would soon multiply.

"One day I got into my Volvo and hit the stereo preset for Pacifica Radio, and then I heard this obscene 'Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy' song coming from the speakers," she recalls. "The very next week, the maid found a tin of Skoal in his Wranglers. I told him him right then -- it was either me, or his tobacco-spitting friends."

Now known as Randy Dale Cash, her estranged son is a starting linebacker for Sul Ross State University in Alpine, Texas.

Peer Pressure

Jane Michelson is not alone in her story. Throughout coastal America, school adminstrators and parents are reporting an alarming surge in 'Cracker' cliques on campus. Also known as 'Y'alls' or 'Neckies,' officials say the groups thrive by attracting outcasts and misfits from the student body.

"We try hard to engage all of our students in fun, healthy activities like Progressive Eco-Action March and Rage Against Intolerance Week," says Lawrence DiBenedetto of Patrice Lumumba Magnet School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. "Unfortunately, there are going to be those who fall through the cracks, into a life of bass fishing and stockcar racing."

It appears those cracks are widening. In one recent three-week period, fourteen high school students in Portland, Oregon were suspended for distributing pork rinds; a Burlington, Vermont high school was briefly closed for decontamination after janitors found a bible hidden in a restroom; and forty-six undergraduate coeds at Swarthmore were expelled for staging clandestine Mary Kay cosmetics parties.

"We became suspicious after several heavily made-up students arrived at a Katha Pollitt lecture in a pink Cadillacs," says Swarthmore Dean of Students Geraldine Marcus.

Some say the craze threatens even the nation's most exclusive prep schools. At Exeter, Andover and St. Albans, rumors abound of secret societies where initiates are steeped in the black arts of restrictor plate cheating and satellite descramblers. Washington's elite Sidwell Friends School was nearly forced to close after scandalized parents learned that several students were openly touting Sams Club cards.

The Eclectic School Aid Hayseed Trip

To better understand what attracts young affluent students to the subculture, I spent a recent evening interviewing a group of self-described 'Neckies' from exclusive New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois. Like countless other Friday nights, the close-knit group had made the 80 mile ritual journey to rural Belvidere, Illinois, to cruise Steak 'N' Shake and hang out at the Mills Fleet Farm parking lot.

"Y'all, check out these new mudders," says 17-year old 'Dakota,' proudly displaying the gigantic knobbed tires under his radically lifted 4x4 Audi Allroad. "I'm fixin' to get me a winch and Tuffbox fer it next week."

Not to be outdone, friend and fellow Neckie 'Duane' sounds 'Dixie' on the novelty horn of his jacked-up BMW M3. An early graduation gift from his parents, Duane has turned the expensive German coupe into an homage to the Dukes of Hazzard's General Lee, complete with orange Stars-and-Bars paint job and spit cup on the console.

"Grandma gave me some money fer a summer study trip over ta Paris, but I thought the paint job was cooler," laughs Duane. "Hell, she thinks I'm over in the Sorbonne right now, studying Foucault and all that shit."

"I'm a-fixin' to put in a nitrous system on the General Lee, so I'ma call Grandma up and aks her for some book money," he adds.

Like most of their classmates, these North Shore Neckies were once bound for some of the top universities in America -- Yale, Duke, Stanford, Northwestern -- until they succumbed to the allure of the Downhome slacker lifestyle. Now some openly talk of dropping out, learning TIG welding, waiting tables at Waffle House or draining oil at Jiffy Lube; some even hint of enrolling at Iowa State. What drives privileged teens to such seemingly self-destructive behavior?

"I guess you might could say we're rebels," says Rachel 'Tyffanie' Stern, 17, lighting a Merit Menthol 100. Once destined for Vassar, Stern is now living with friends after her parents kicked her out of the house for spending her bat mitzvah money on a bass boat. Last month she became the youngest Jewish female to win an event on the Bassmasters Pro Tour.

Pausing for furtive glances, several of the teens share sniffs from a bottle of Harmon Triple Heat deer scent.

"Wooo-eee, shit howdy, that's gonna bring a mess of them whitetail bucks," says 19-year old Wei-Li 'Lamar' Cheung. A former Westinghouse Science Award winner, Cheung has devoted his chemistry and biology skill to building a fledgling hunting supply business.

A first generation Asian-American, Cheung says he was drawn to the group by their acceptance of minorities. "Hell, I kept tellin' all my family and teachers I wanna play fiddle, not violin," he explains. "The 'Necks accept me the way I am."

African-American Kwame 'Joe Don' Harris agrees. "Just because I'm black, teachers were always pushing me to go to Spellman to study Langston Hughes and Thelonius Monk," says the 17 year old. "These ol' boys here never laugh at my dream to be a crew chief for the Craftsman Truck Series."

If there is one aspiration that unites them all, it is the dream of moving to Branson, Missouri. Long famed for its laid-back attitude toward religion, country music and the military, Branson has become a Mecca for radical young Neckies seeking an escape from the stultifying conformity of their coastal hometowns.

"Plus it's only a short drive up to Fort Leonard Wood," adds Tyffanie.

Talk arises of Branson's 'Summer of Bubba,' the upcoming hedonistic hillbilly festival of music, hog calling and nightcrawler gathering expected to draw millions of Neckies from as far as Santa Monica and Ithaca -- even Europe.

"Y'all, I heard them Swedish 'Necks are hardcore," says Joe Don. "They digitally remastered all the original Jerry Clower albums."

A live-for-today attitude permeates the group's ethos, with little concern about consequences. I ask Justin 'Jim Rob' Borowski, 18, what motivates young men and women to abandon promising academic careers in Gender Theory and Critical History to take a wild ride in the dark world of roofing and drywall contracting.

"My daddy was sorta mad when I tolt him I was gonna skip Columbia Journalism School for a plumbing apprenticeship," he answer philosophically, popping a plug of Red Man into his lip. "I tolt him that journalism is important, but the world needs plumbers too."

Very nicely done, but also too painfully close to the actual everyday socialist banality here in the stifling People's Republik of KerryLand, MA to be funny to me. I'd like to send those types of parents to a new Death Valley "Re-Education" Camp to "commune" with nature and their grandparent's Depression-era spirit.

"It's funny 'cuz it's true." I guess I was well ahead of the curve by 15 or so years...

Grew up on Chicago's north side. Took private violin lessons at the exclusive Winnetka Music School some twenty-five years ago. My best friend from grammer school went to New Trier HS. He wanted to go to the Marines and I ended up at Ft Jackson. I am now a forester living in Petros-Joyner, TN, population 300 or so... excluding the prison population at Brushy Mtn State Penn and the hunters that inhabit the woods during deer season. I drive a pickup and own two guns (so far). The only thing missing is the pinch between my cheek and gums.

My Ford F150 with gun rack & 12 ga pump, yellow dog and such stickers as "Cat- the Other white meat" and "Gun Control Means using both hands" came from a kit I was required to buy as part of the "How to Become a Redneck" course I am currently taking - Comes with a 5 gallon pail of Bondo too.

This is not satire. I live about 40 miles from Branson, my 13 year old loves country music. We are blues and jazz lovers. My 24 year old called to try to buy my ancient Imperial and Big Smith overalls from me. She says everyone at work are wearing them and she wants some that look worn. Offered 20 bucks for them. The 13 year old really wants a john deer cap, the kind with the vent crap in the back, and guess what else is hot? Dickies!!!!!!!Not the fake turtleneck, but the brand of gas station wear! Do you know there are as many brands of chew as there are of cigerettes? I'm a knee jerk conservative and I'm concerned! Cammo is hot, especially the bright orange hunting caps. It's wierd, is it retro red or poverty chic? I think the later.

Dude - This is the funniest thing I've read in years! I especially loved the references to Jerry Clower and the M3. There was a DJ, can't remember his name, but he broadcasted his show over WRVA-AM in Richmond from a huge truck stop outside of Ashland, Virginia. Played Jerry Clower albums all the time. I never was much in to it at the time trying to be an '80s yuppie. But my mother used to listen to him every night and call me the next day to relate the latest Clower story. She found her 'Neckie' roots in her later years. And as a former M3 owner, while I would NEVER do a General Lee paint job on such a car, it is now one of those deep, dark, hidden thoughts in the back of my head that will go with me to the grave. :-) Thank you so very much for this article.

As a true-blue liberal Texan, I have to disagree with all the "liberals ain't got no sense of humor!" cracks above -- politics or no, I thought this was hilarious. I'll be sending it to all my friends (and yes, most of 'em are liberals, too), 'cause I know they'll enjoy it.

Two things, though -- 1). Imitating rednecks isn't anything new, at least not down here in Texas. Friends of mine used to throw White Trash Parties every few months where they'd dip Skoal, drink Pearl, and watch Dukes of Hazzard 'til they passed out.

And 2). You don't have to be a redneck to like Johnny Cash, or Loretta Lynn, or Mountain Dew, or Waffle House, or even moon pies. Heck, my wife loves George Jones, and she's about the most *non*-redneck person I know. Just sayin'...

That was the funniest political commentary I've read all year. I'm an ex pat cracker now living in Winnetka, Illinois whose son attends the legendary New Trier High School. I was raised in Alabama and Mississippi, briefly played bass in a blue grass band and my wife was once "Miss Falstaff Beer" at the Taladega 500 stock car race.
Also, I'll guaran-damn-tee ya I'm the only guy in Winnetka who listens to George Jones, shops at Wal Mart, and bleeds for the Crimson Tide. Politics? I've have just as soon voted for a dead dog as cast a ballot for George W. Bush.

Great stuff. Though actually, if San Francisco residents want to get a taste of down-home cracker culture, they don't have to go much further than California's Central Valley to see it.

It also reminded me of the fact that nearly everyone I know in San Francisco is actually from somewhere else--in general the "natives to migrants" factor is something like 1 to 5 or something like that. And a great deal of those migrants happen to come from...you guessed it: red states. Places like South Carolina, Alabama, Arkansas, Louisiana, and so on. And they throw *the best* "white trash" parties, let me tell yew. So, y'know, in a small way we've got the best of both worlds right here. Y'all should come out for our yearly free bluegrass festival in Golden Gate Park--all the greats come to play.

Oh, one other thing. You misspelt "Potrero." Not a big deal, it's easy to screw up.

Retired, I took off my VP Engineering suit and tie, married a Southern lady from Dothan AL (referred to as Down Home hereabouts) where I trained before going to Korea as a grunt in 1951, left Minnesota, and moved South. My wife soon concluded that there was a red neck inside me and now I drive a Chevy pickup, have a dog who loves me, spend a lot of time at Lowes and Sams and go to blue grass concerts. Still love Beethoven and miss my SVT, but what the hell. I got 20 grandchildren in the deal, have 5 great grandchildren which I occasionally make toys for in the biggest shop I ever had (A/C inside) and participated in Georgia going Republican. What more can a mean spirited (one who is offended at the thought of spending someone elses' money) old papaw ask for. These folk got it right. My cement contractor has a 350 dually for the family and conducts his business with an S-10. He also manages to aw shucks himself into about $50./nr. It's kind of like the old days in MN with Grain Belt beer, Jaques seed corn, Nutrena (my mother invented the concept of printed feed sacks), Burma Shave, and Red Man, but I miss the bibbers with at least one button missing and the strap(s) being held with a wooden match. You could tell the workers who had the knees worn out from the sitters who had the butts worn. These are some of the things your young folks could work at.

I about had a fit reading you and advised my wife to not touch her computer when she called me for dinner (barbequed pork, what else?)

I loved this, and linked from Rightwingnews. I've read your stuff before, but this takes the ultra-cake! I never bookmarked you before, but I will now.

This thing read like a NYT artice. The pathetic, helpless angst. The national liberal locations. The quotes from goof-ass academics.

I love this, and it will make the e-mail rounds for a long time to come. Thanks!

--------------------
p.s. tiffany is right about Spelman. You gotta change that to Moorehouse, or Howard, or make the character a girl. That won't stop me from putting in Moorehouse and sending it to every liberal I know! I'm not really too "necktie" (love the people, lukewarm to the style) but we need more people who can be 'tolerant' of their 'lifestyle' choices. And thank God they voted!

Awesome! Good to see those ol' cracker values shining through. But I wonder if it's nothing more than just backlash or a trend, something that may fade away when a new craze hits. I see some of it here at my school; it's definitely not to the degree described above, but I think here it's an actual reflection of culture and heritage as opposed to being a new, "hip" thang to do.

On 'Moral Values,' It's Blue in a Landslide
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The New York Times
November 14, 2004
FRANK RICH

On 'Moral Values,' It's Blue in a Landslide

FAREWELL to Swift boats and "Shove it!," to Osama's tape and Saddam's
missing weapons, to "security moms" and outsourced dads. They've all been
sent to history's dustbin faster than Ralph Nader memorabilia was dumped on
eBay. In their stead stands a single ambiguous phrase coined by an anonymous
exit pollster: "Moral values." By near universal agreement the morning
after, these two words tell the entire story of the election: it's the
culture, stupid.

"It really is Michael Moore versus Mel Gibson," said Newt Gingrich. To Jon
Stewart, Nov. 2 was the red states' revenge on "Will & Grace." William
Safire, speaking on "Meet the Press," called the Janet Jackson fracas "the
social-political event of the past year." Karl Rove was of the same mind: "I
think it's people who are concerned about the coarseness of our culture,
about what they see on the television sets, what they see in the movies ..."

*************************

[Ed note: Chris apparently felt that (a) you all needed to get a scolding from fatfuck NYTimes drama queen Frank Rich, and (b) I should pay for the bandwidth.

I have deleted the rest of his post, which entirely consists of the Rich article. If you want to read it, go to www.NYtimes.com.

The initials of the oldest radio station down here in Atlanta stand for Welcome South, Brother.
Pretentious arrogance may prevail for a time, but sooner or later all these post-modernist fads always give way to easy and gracious living. Why do you think Johnny Cash is so popular now, and Loretta Lynn is back on the charts? And I have seen a Mercedes sedan riding on a 4x4 chassis.

As a refugee/recoveree from the People's Republic of Cambridge (MA), I can tell you, you have hit the nail on the head with this brillant, hysterical piece. Come to think of it, I might be some sort of a proto-Cracker myself, since I done gone and gived up my high-falutin' software-engineerin' life up there in the PROC to raise babies here in the 'burbs of Phoenix.

Beautiful, I've lived in Georgia for some 35 years and knew we had a lot of fun, I just hadn't thought that much about it. Gonna get in my 4x4, put the 30/30 in the gun rack, pick up some Skoal, a styrofoam spit cup, a couple of moon pies, some Mountain Dew, and run on down to the Wal Mart and cruise the parking lot!

This captures the essence of red state - redneck culture. After starting out practicing law in large firm in a large northern city, I re-settled in the mountains of East Tennessee 20 years ago and have resumed living the lifestyle described in this article.

I am not a member of any county club, and it would not occur to me to put on funny colored pants and take up golf. However, I am a member of several gun clubs and I dutifully spend my Saturdays at them each weekend. The only sport I follow is stock car racing, and I still listen to the same bluegrass and outlaw country music (Jerry Jeff Walker, David Alan Coe, etc.) that I have been listening to for 30 years.

We don't need the approval of the Hollywood and media elite. Nine of the top 10 NASCAR drivers endorsed President Bush, and we value their opinions more than Whoopie Goldberg's and Michael Moore's.

By the by, my eldest son lives in small-twon Missouri. He says the redneck craze is way big.

'Git 'er done!'

But they all listen to gangsta rap, he also tells me. Someday ghetto blacks'll remember that their forefathers brought the original banjo to the States, that Leadbelly ain't slang for multiple gunshots to the stomach, and even Miles Davis said, in his later years, to proclaim his remaining powers:

"I still got my Ferrarri."

Meanwhile, southern white stereotypes will release their hold on their sophisticated middle class college bred Dixiecrats and they'll cease thinking in such reactionary terms against liberal stereotypes, realize that BOTH those roles are ancient fuddy-duddy noise, that they live in a culture when Jerry Clower will likely soon be digitally virtualized into a VERY hilarious LIfe of Jerry Clower movie a la the current Ray Charles movie, or The Buddy Holly Story, and it will soon require a 4-year computer networking deghree to drive a combine rig.

I ain't never lived there, but I spent a few nights there, and from where I live I can walk or throw a rock across the border, 'n I done lived hyere longer'n most o' you been a'livin' anywhere.

First, ain't nothin' in Paly postmodern 'cept maybe that whacked out church buildin' on Hamilton, but it was built in th' '50s or '60s. They got all them old Maybecks from WWI, an little ol' stuccos from later, an a few bigshot mansions from Leland Stanford's day, an' a whole passel o' Eichlers from the '50s. Nearest thang they got to postmodern are them big ole fake Tudor palaces that darn near squeeze theyselfs off th' lot lines. An' they still puttin' up a huge fight about 'em.

Second, you can git Red Man an' all kinds o' other bakky at Mac's Smoke Shop up on Emerson, an' it's been there since WWII anyhow.

Fifth, 'an maybe this'll scandalize y'all, Shrub's (an' I use th' term affekshunately) security adviser usta spend a lot o' time livin' in Paly. An' she can even tickle th' ivories with Brahms right good. So they is some high falutin' culchure 'round there.

I live five miles from Palo Alto. I did my graduate work at Stanford. This piece is brilliant! Tears of laughter have been rolling down my cheeks since I got to the phrase "remains of a gutted catfish". I'm forwarding this to all my friends, plus my grad school classmate who's the mayor of Palo Alto.

20 years ago when kids started wearing blue hair and goth crap on the beaches in California (including boots and long overcoats in 90 degree heat)reg'lar Amuricans like me said: To each his own but WTF?

The explanation then was that when your parents are old dope smoking hippies from the '60's, how else do you rebel? I've been thinking about that alot lately and I think you have summarized the blue state parents' worst nightmare.

BTW I'll remember you to the folks at Big Bend Saddlery in Alpine when I stop by there in a couple weeks.

As one who was born and raised in the beautiful Missouri Ozarks, and lives only minutes from Branson, I'll join Elizabeth and offer my services as a cracker consultant to any young blue staters wishing to convert. I am literally a five minute drive away from piles of $3.99 Bass Pro trucker hats, as seen gracing the noggin of propane and propane accessories salesman Hank Hill. If you'd like to learn more about the glory of living in the reddest part of a great red state, please get in touch. As the song goes, "Y'all come to see us when you can."

Absolutely brilliant...and perfectly worded. A masterwork of satire on those who [gasp] already had the self-appointed market on intellekshullality locked up tight as algore's lockbox. Dayumed i-ronic, y'all.

Obviously, Leftism isn't a position. It's a (mirthless, 2-dimensional, dishonest, sanctimonious) mental illness. This shows how as well as anything I've read since the election.

"Roll Tide!' and 'Gig 'em Ags!' and 'Piiiig Sooieeee!'" Ah no I don't think so. As a proud resident of the State of Alabama (the buckle of the bible belt)...we don't use "Roll Tide" in the same sentence with those other two profanities.

This is some fine commentary, and funny too. I called the 'rib' into the living room and said, "Honey, take a look at this"...well, she laughed so hard she almost dropped a whole handfull of mashed potatos and gravy!

Love it! Anyone wanting immersion studies in redneckery can come stay with me in Appalachian Kentucky for a spell. Don't worry, I live in site-built construction. When you're ready, I can help you find a trailer for rent.

Hmm..I was born in Fort Leonard Wood. Must be why, despite a non-competitive liberal upbringing provided by many care facilitators, I still like Hank Williams, Waffle House and the smell of Axle grease.

Blue staters will figure it out eventually. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

There is a comparable 'chav' movement in the UK and I have witnessed the devastation the love of gold clown necklaces, sports leisure wear and Burberry wreaks on middle class family life.

The parents blame themselves endlessly, wondering if they should have moved to a small island in the Orkneys to protect their children. It's terribly sad and most parents I know are fearful that their children will become victims of this cruel lifestyle choice.

The Jerry Clower line is priceless. I had completely forgotten him. I'm 27 and the last time I heard him, or even of him, was when I was 10. My step-mom, a true cracker, listened to him all the time. We heard him non-stop during a trip to North Carolina from Florida and back.
Honest to God, this woman also literally fed us roadkill; only if it was fresh hit, though. My brother and I were deeply ashamed that our father married her; he literally was a member of Mensa.

Hmm, I notice that almost all of the "neckies" interviewed wound up in more lucrative careers than they would have been in had they remained acedemic larvae. There's nothing you can do with a gender studies degree, but plumbing is a skiled trade and oune that can't possibly be outsourced to India.

PoliPundit"nobody – and I mean nobody, in the confines of Al Gore’s greatest invention, the Internet, can slice, dice and julienne a huge chunk of pure snark into so many little jagged pieces like he can"

Charles Murray, The American Enterprise Institute"Out of nowhere—at least I’d never heard of him—comes a posting by one David Burge on his blog, Iowahawk, in which he tore Krugman’s numbers apart. I don’t mean he found some soft spots. I’m talking evisceration. The post has been flying around cyberspace and has a attracted a lot of flak to which Burge has now responded. I recommend both posts as tours de force on two levels. First, they are saturated with the best kind of Internet irreverence and humor—sophomoric occasionally, lmao funny more often. Second, the guy is a hell of an applied statistician. It’s wonderful: Paul Krugman’s got his mile-high New York Times platform, Burge has an obscure blog. And yet, in the world of the Internet, he can take Krugman down and end up letting a whole lot of people know he’s done it."

Hugh Hewitt"For a lesson on how to argue a complex case in the face of MSM stupidity and/or bias --answer with facts, repittion and careful writing laced with laughs-- read the tutorial prepared by Iowahawk... This is how it is done. Airlift Iowahawk to the Speaker's office."

The Lunatic's Asylum"IowaHawk is God. If you're STILL not reading IowaHawk regularly, then you, Sir or Madame, are a dipshit. One that should be taken out and sterilized with the rustiest of farm implements, so that you may not pollute the gene pool with future generations of little dipshits."

Bookworm Room"Every time I read one of Iowahawk’s satires, I think to myself, 'This is it. He cannot get better than this.' And every time I am wrong, as Iowahawk, over and over, publishes something new that is even funnier than his last outing... In a perfect world, Iowahawk would be one of the most recognized comic satirists in America."

Fausta Wertz"the dance floor started to open and exposed a vast deep pool filled with man-eating sharks. The crowd panicked as a couple fell into the waters and the sharks feasted on them. Without missing a step or loosening his embrace, he led me to the entrance and with a swift move managed to both hit the switch that closed the shark pit and concluded the final dance step. He then said, 'It’s late. I must go tend to my blog.'"

Dan Collins, Protein Wisdom"He is Iowahawk of Typepad
Master of the sparkling send-up
When he posts, then douchebags tremble
Realizing they’ve been skewered
And with no recourse to match him:
Mighty Burge, the Iowahawk”

Amused Cynic"perhaps the best-written, cleverest “F*** You” salute that I have ever seen administered ... I am hereby delivering a James Thurber salute to you, Dave, and popping the top on a 16 oz. can of PBR in your direction"

Daniel Ruwe, Right Minds"The funniest person on the Internet. Every one of his posts makes me laugh out loud. Literally incredibly funny. You have to experience him to appreciate him"

Elizabeth Crum"For an idea of what I find brilliant and loveable in terms of sarcasm, satire and the like, see Iowahawk. He is one of our great modern-day scribes: smart, scathing, derisive, outrageous, and funny like few can be"

Jesse Macbeth"I'd like to take the time to address some of the stuff that I read on the Internet written about me... I got to tell you some of the stuff I saw was really funny. One of my favorites ones was actually the Power Rangers one, that was kind of cool."

Jools Krittindan"Then there’s Iowahawk. I don’t even know what he does for a living, something in Iowa, I guess. Yeah, society would function fine without him. It would just suck more. He gets an estate all his own: Iowahawk, the Sixth Estate."

Cherry River Blog"Yes, this is a crude attempt to gain entrance to IH's hallowed blogroll, and maybe even a blurb-out listing, but I still stand in awe of the capaciousness of mind that Mr. Burge has demonstrated to a barely worthy Web world"

Jules Crittenden"I have received no remuneration or consideration of any kind for this shameless fawning boosterism and free advertising. Nor do I require any. To have been in some small way associated with the global Iowahawk phenomenon is more than most of us can aspire to in our miserable, inconsequential little lives. To bask in its electronic glow is to sense the existence of immortality."

Hot Flashes"The man I’d most likely invite to my bedroom in another life"

Jim Henshaw"Neo-cons may not be as humorless as I thought, as this essay from Conservative blogger Iowahawk will attest. Even if you hate his politics, this is funny stuff"

Dave Bender, Israel at Level Ground (Israel)"Iowahawk is in the side of the wrong business, not to mention residing on the wrong landmass; he needs to get over here quick and start pumping out copy for the major news agencies"

Jules Crittendon, Boston Herald"Iowahawk’s wild, unkempt observations may look like they’ve spent the last three days sleeping under a bridge, and be frightening and smelly up close, but they are conduits of fundamental, irrefutable truth. Much like the drunk who accosts you on a streetcorner and unabashedly proclaims, 'I need money for a bottle of Cossack.'"

Twisted Spinster"Iowahawk sticks the knife in so nicely that you don’t even feel it until everything starts to go dark and fuzzy"

Bill Whittle, National Review"My friend Iowahawk writes some of the most brilliant satire I have ever read. He likes to come across as a beer-swilling gearhead — because he is — but look at this ... simply so that I may bask in its reflected glory"

Rush Limbaugh"I've gotta share with you one of the funniest things I have ever read. It is by the blogger Iowahawk. It is one of the sharpest, most cutting, brilliant satires on these pseudo-intellectual conservatives... I've heard of Iowahawk. I don't know what his leanings are, probably lib, I don't know, doesn't matter. This whole thing is just wonderful, it is just hilarious."

Quid Nimis"I think the reason I don't do Iowa Hawk everyday is the same reason I don't eat ice cream everyday: it's too good. That and the fact that I would have to leave my husband and stalk Dave Burge"

Tim Blair, Sydney Telegraph (Australia)"As Sandy Roberts says: 'When you think of Bhutan, you think of archery.' And when you think of Vettes, Ferraris and Hemi-powered rods, you think of Iowahawk and his LA-bound nitroclan"

Joseph Bottum, First Things"I’m on the board of a literary magazine at a small state university, and, at the board’s meeting this spring, the editor mentioned that he had wanted to reprint the blogger Iowahawk’s hilarious swipe at the archbishop of Canterbury... Unfortunately, the editor said, the magazine couldn’t do reprint it. The legal adviser from the university’s administration had said no—not on the grounds that it was offensive to Anglicans and their archbishop, but on the grounds that it mentioned Islam, and the school could receive bomb threats as a result of publishing it."

Lone Star Times"Between cleaning carburetors and restoring classic American cars, Burge churns out some of the funniest and decisively deadly wit and commentary on the web... Write the Pulitzer Committee and demand Iowahawk should win"

Roger Kimball, Pajamas Media"inspired … I was going to say 'parody,' but really it is far too close to the original to be called a parody. Really, it is like the play Hamlet stages to 'catch the conscience of the King,' a dramatic re-enactment of the very crime Claudius had committed but had yet to acknowledge. It worked for Hamlet; will Iowahawk’s performance work for the rest of us? It is too early to tell. But ... it is more truthful, and far more amusing, than anything you’ll read in the [New York] Times."

Paul Kedrosky, Infectious Greed"I really don't know how best to summarize IowaHawk's you-are-there white-trash treatise... If you crossed Hunter Thompson and Michael Lewis, you might get something this angry and bizarre"

The McMuffins (UK)"Iowahawk and his lovely wife... did not appear to be the psychopathic stalking killers we had been warned about, although that Iowahawk did have a murderous look in his eyes and an unusual amount of froth coming from his mouth"

Blacklake (Hot Air Comments)"I’d say Iowahawk was a genius, but geniuses aren’t generally very clever. Plus, studies have shown that nine out of ten have no idea how to clean a carb. So, statistically speaking, his geniushood is unlikely."

Rand Simberg (Transterrestrial Musings)"Next time Iowahawk beats up on you, just take it. If you try to fight back, it only gets worse. It's like one of those monsters that, the harder you fight it, the stronger it gets, because it actually feeds on your pathetic swats."

Blog Québécois"If Iowahawk ever decides to turn his guns on you, accept your beating with good grace and a rueful chuckle. If you try to fight back, it only gets funnier."

Roger Kimball (The New Criterion)"The excellent weblog IowaHawk summarized some of the thoughts I had... I must also laud David Burge of IowaHawk for his gritty pragmatism. He is no armchair crusader, full of empty imprecations."

Bill Whittle"I've met him, you know -- Iowahawk. 6'7" he is, arms like mighty oak trees, legs like even mightier oak trees: clear grey eyes looking to the far horizon, his lantern jaw set against the approaching storm but yet with a slight hint of a distant smile bourne of many combats won and mortal enemies vanquished.
I stood speechless in his presence at a restaurant in Marina del Rey --- just speechless, weeping silently at the sheer magnetism and force of personality coming off the man in seismic waves; a transcendental, religious experience that kept me awake for a week, as if I had seen the heavens split open in a blaze of orange and purple glory, and all of God's Great Plan revealed.
And when he finally did speak, it was the sound of distant thunder echoing off ancient mountains, a sound that predates mankind's puny schreeching -- a sound that, indeed, is antecedent to the founding of Life on Earth and comes carried through the ether on the shock wave of ancient dying stars. And though he only spoke twelve words during the four hours I stood in his presence, those words are with me still, a perfect dozen seared into my memory, written in gold across the great hall of my mind.
He said, 'HEY, CAN YOU GET THIS ONE? I LEFT MY WALLET AT HOME.'"

Spongeworthy"But no shit, Iowahawk might get up tomorrow, get baked, grab his beautiful wife and ride his moped backwards to a Hells Angel rally, then drink himself into oblivion and fight about 7 crank dealers from the Racine chapter of the Death Jokers all by himself.
Then maybe he'd go home, romance the beautiful wife, build a perfect retro treehouse for his perfect kids, drink a bottle of tequila, prepare a 3-course meal while beating away a push-in home invader and sacrificing him on a makeshift, though historically accurate, Inca altar he built in the woods behind the railroad tracks.
Then he'd sit down and knock out a tremedously insulting Leftist parody that pissed off thread after thread of Kos and DU lunatics, romance the bride once again and fall asleep chuckling.
It's like he's Paul Bunyan and Mark Twain rolled up into one hipster"